The Peculiars (5 page)

Lena’s heart was hammering so hard that she was sure the marshal would hear it. “My father’s name is Saul.”

“Is that so?” Fire danced in his eyes now. “Would you know where I could reach him?”

“I—no—I mean . . . I haven’t seen him in a while.”

The marshal nodded his head as if satisfied. “Just how long a while would that be?”

“He left home when I was five.”

“So, the stories were true. Old Saul vanished. And he had a daughter.” He exhaled noisily. “Have you heard from him recently?”

“No.” Her voice was low now and she was thinking furiously. “How do you know of him?”

“Everybody in my line of work knows Saul. I grew up on stories about Saul. My own father died when I was twelve. Let’s say there’s some unfinished business between my father and your father. But I find it hard to believe even a man like Saul wouldn’t be in touch with his own daughter.” As he fastened her with his eyes, his mouth quirked into a smile. A dimple flashed. His voice softened. “Come now, tell me the truth.”

Lena could smell coffee on his breath as he leaned forward. She curled her fingers. “It’s true. I haven’t heard from him.”

“Your mother, then—has she heard from him?”

“No.” His eagerness unnerved her.

He closed the notebook with a snap and put it away. “And you’re traveling to Knob Knoster on the borderlands. That’s not where most attractive, respectable young ladies want to go.” The marshal’s inquisitive eyes traveled slowly down from the crown of her head to her waist.

As if her legs had turned to water, Lena rose shakily. “I have a cousin there.” She tried to sound like it was a family
trip and nothing more. What unfinished business did this man have with her father?

The marshal ran his index finger across his wide mustache. “And her name is?”

“Amelia Crane. She’s my mother’s cousin.” Would he try to find her there?

“That’s all for now, Miss Lena Mattacascar. Let’s hope you take after your mother.”

JIMSON WAS DOZING WHEN SHE RETURNED AT LAST, STILL SHAKING,
to their passenger car. Not only was her purse missing, but now the loss was compounded by her unsettling conversation with the marshal. She looked at Jimson. His lips were parted, and his head slumped against the curtained window. Was he handsome? She couldn’t decide. What would Emily, her one friend from school, say? She would say that his nose was lopsided and that his chin was too sharp. But she’d like his eyes, as thickly lashed as a girl’s.

Lena buried her face in her hands. There was almost no chance the marshal would retrieve her purse; she was sure of it. What had her father done to be known by the man, to make his eyes burn with such intensity? When she looked up, her eyes sloppy with unshed tears, Jimson was sitting upright watching her.

“You didn’t find it.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“No.”

“Have you talked to the conductor?”

“I talked to a marshal. He questioned me about the shooting in the dining car.”

Jimson quirked an eyebrow. “And?”

“And nothing. He doesn’t have any idea where it is. He says that the train was in so much chaos that anyone might have taken it.”

“Can you do without it? I mean, do you have enough to get by until it’s found?”

Lena bit her lip to keep from crying. “For a few days, maybe, but there were other things—addresses, and a map, some private papers . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she stared at the brocade curtains.

“I’m sure Mr. Beasley would be willing to—I could help you out if you need anything.”

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine.” Her voice was cold. She couldn’t risk becoming dependent in Knob Knoster. It was only a launch point for her quest. But now she would be seriously hampered by her lack of funds. How would she afford to purchase the things she needed for the journey into Scree?

Jimson was looking at her with perplexity, and Lena realized that he had asked her a question.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

“I asked you about your hands. Were they burned?”

“Burned?” The question caught her by surprise. “Why would you think they were burned?”

“Because you keep them covered all the time. But perhaps it’s just to protect them. You said you are a pianist.”

Not many people asked about her hands or feet directly. They stared. They whispered. They made sideways remarks: “You must be quite artistic.” Or they asked jokingly if she planned to grow into her feet the same way a puppy grew into oversized paws. Not many had the gumption to ask her a real question. It was always easier to joke than to be sincere. She admired Jimson’s directness.

“No, they’re just rather . . . long.” Her face flamed.

“But that’s good for a pianist, isn’t it?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

“I didn’t grow them this way to make me more accomplished at the piano.”

Soft light flickered in the car. The brocade curtains had been drawn against the dark. They were entering a deeper dark now, the first of three tunnels blasted through rock.

“Each finger has an extra knuckle. I was born that way. That’s the only reason I’m a pianist. I thought I’d better put them to use.” She feigned a laugh as if it didn’t matter and splayed both hands on the table, exposing their full mannerist length.

Jimson didn’t laugh or make a smart comment; he seemed genuinely curious. “You were born that way?”

She nodded. “A disorder, an accident of birth.”

“They’re so thin. Do they hurt?”

“Sometimes, but not much.”

The chandelier overhead cast shadows across her gloved hands. When Jimson looked up, his blue eyes were also shadowed.

“May I see them? Without the gloves?”

Again, Lena was surprised by his directness. Coming from anyone else she would consider it rude, abrupt. What did it really matter here in this car, hurtling through the dark? The worst that could happen, the very worst, was that she would see the revulsion in his face. She’d seen it in people’s eyes many times before, but it was never something she grew used to. This time she felt reckless. What he thought wouldn’t matter. In another hour, she would never see him again.

“All right.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she deliberately rolled the black fabric of the glove down the length of her left arm. In the gaslight, her skin was moon-pale and smooth. The gloves had protected her hands not only from prying eyes but from the scorch of sun as well. Hesitating at the wrist, and then with determination, she peeled the fabric from her palm and down the length of her fingers until the pale pink skin of her hand lay bare. Only then did she look up to read his expression.

Jimson’s eyes rested on her hand. His lips were slightly parted, as they had been in sleep. His gaze was so intense, she curled her fingers.

“They all bend? Each joint, I mean.” His voice had a breathless sound.

“Of course they bend,” she snapped. “They work like normal hands.”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like it. They’re amazing, so long and delicate.”

Lena checked to see if he was mocking her. But his face was serious, reverential almost.

“They’re ugly. ‘Goblin phalanges,’ my nana calls them.” Why did she say that? An almost imperceptible sob escaped her lips. She had come to terms with her differences long ago. She tugged the covering back over her fingertips.

“No, they’re not. Ugly, I mean. And you don’t have to do that. It must be annoying to have to wear gloves all the time.” He leaned back against the seat and looked her full in the face.

“It is. They itch and they’re hot in the summer. But I don’t like having to explain my hands to everyone. I don’t like people staring.”

He nodded as if he understood. “I won’t mention your hands again, unless you do. Take both your gloves off. I won’t even look.” He closed his eyes.

“We’ll be to Knoster soon, and then I’ll just have to put them on again.” But the offer was tempting, and Lena peeled the gloves from her right hand as well as her left. She flexed her fingers, then leaned her head back against the seat. But she kept her feet hidden in the shadows.

When the train stopped an hour later, Lena was startled awake. Her mouth was dry and her head felt thick. Her bare
hands were curled in her lap. Across from her Jimson was brushing off his ridiculous hat. Hurriedly, she yanked on her gloves and smoothed wisps of her hair behind her ears. Then she remembered her purse. It was gone. Her head ached. There would still be enough money for a few nights’ lodging, she calculated, but not enough to purchase the supplies she needed. Not enough to hire a guide. She stood and buttoned her green jacket. At least she could remember the address she needed—Miss Brett’s for Women, 22 Thistlewaite. Only blocks from the train station, according to her lost map.

“I suppose your cousin is meeting you.” Jimson was standing at her side, his black curls poking out from under the unfortunate hat. “Here. I wrote down Mr. Beasley’s address in case you need anything. Perhaps I can see you again?”

The conductor interrupted before Lena could answer. “Good evening. I hope you enjoyed your trip.” Lena nodded her thanks while trying to keep her feet from poking out too far from beneath her gray skirt.

As the train doors slid open, the smell of the sea rushed to greet them.

A HANDFUL OF PEOPLE HAD COME TO MEET THE PASSENGERS AT THE
station in Knob Knoster, but none had as strong a presence as the sea. As Lena took the conductor’s hand and stepped from the train, she stepped into a sea-claimed world. She could smell it. The very feel of the air was different—moist and salty. She ran her tongue across her lips, tasting the air. In the distance, she was sure she could hear it calling her, a deep rumble of longing.

Knob Knoster, built on a knob of rocky coast that projected into the sea, had once been a wealthy seaport. The train station was an aging dowager, spotted and faded but still clinging to a gilded past. The building itself was flourished with cornucopias and buttresses, but blue had faded to pale gray in the sea air and the gilt trim had flaked away in patches. Three buggies, with flickering side lights, waited at attention to collect passengers. Lena noticed the two businessmen climb into one conveyance
while the Jack Sprat couple were greeted by an elderly couple and whisked away. The lone businessman appeared not to be a detective after all. He was met with joyous cries by a round wife with three children at her side.

From the third carriage a wizened man stepped down. He limped his way toward Lena and Jimson.

“Where’s your cousin?” Jimson turned to Lena after scanning the crowd.

“She must be late.” Lena pretended to search in the distance. If only Jimson would leave now, before she made her solitary way to Miss Brett’s.

“No,
we’re
late.” Jimson looked at the brass clock on the peak of the station house. “Very late. Perhaps she’s come and gone.”

Lena moved to collect her plaid bag from the pile the porter had unloaded onto the wooden platform. “I’m sure she’s only delayed. Don’t worry about me. I have your address.”

“Mr. Jimson Quiggley? I’m Arthur, come to collect you for Mr. Beasley.” White muttonchop sideburns bristled from the man’s weathered cheeks.

Jimson directed the small man to his two bags. “I don’t feel right going off and leaving you alone in a strange town,” he said. Lena noticed how he jutted his sharp chin forward. Stubborn, she thought.

How was she going to get out of this? The platform was becoming quickly deserted. The woman with the poppy hat was embracing another woman of her same type. Two
missionaries, Lena was sure, bent on saving the lost souls of Scree. Jimson showed no signs of moving on.

Toward the back of the platform, Lena spied an older woman in a knitted shawl. In a desperate move, she raised her arm and called out. The woman looked up. Lena grabbed her satchel and plunged forward in her direction. As she did, she called back over her shoulder, “Good-bye, Jimson. Good luck being a librarian!” And she marched toward the startled woman, who was still considering Lena, trying to decide if she knew her or not.

As she approached the woman, Lena realized that she must work for the station. An apron with the railroad insignia was fastened around her ample middle, and a broom and dustpan rested nearby against the side of the station house. She must be taking a break from work, Lena thought. From the top of the cupola, the gears rotated hands across the face of the great brass clock. Nine chimes rang out. Lena looked over her shoulder. Jimson was talking to the man with a limp as they walked toward the last of the carriages. The train shuddered and groaned to wakefulness.